


All Is Fair

by karuvapatta



Series: Disaster Family [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bad Parenting, Daddy Issues, F/M, Fire Nation (Avatar), Fire Nation Royal Family, Firebending & Firebenders, Ozai is a terrible boyfriend, Pre-Canon, Unhealthy Relationships, Ursa is about to regret all of her life choices, ignores the comics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 10:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13973301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: What happens on Ember Island, stays on Ember Island - but after a stressful few weeks back in the Capital, Prince Ozai finds himself missing the girl he spent the summer with.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> ...look. I love this pairing. I can't stop thinking about this pairing. I know the audience isn't huge but it's out there, and since I wrote it, might as well publish it *shrugs*
> 
> cross-posted on ff.net, for reasons.

The matron, having heard his request, only barely managed to hide her disapproval. She did so with a deep, deferential bow, so that he could not see her scowling at him.

“What you ask for, Your Highness, is most improper,” she said.

“I don’t see how,” he said mildly. “I merely wish to speak to the lady Ursa. In private.”

The expression on her stern face belayed how little she believed him.

“I do apologize for inconveniencing you, my lord. However, I have been tasked with the protection of these girls.”

“She will be perfectly safe,” he said. 

The conversation was beginning to try his patience. Above everything else, the walls of the guest room at Ursa’s boarding house were paper-thin. Exactly what kind of impropriety could happen here without the entire place knowing about it, he dared not even ask.

He held the woman’s gaze until she came to her senses and bowed again.

“I shall have her summoned right away.”

“Thank you,” he said, graciously.

A servant appeared once she left, carrying a tray and a tea set. They might have been ill-prepared to host royalty in this establishment but the service was competent enough. He knelt at the low table and waited – like a commoner. Or a deer dog, perhaps, awaiting its master’s favour. 

It was humiliating. And yet.

Shortly thereafter, the door slid open. In came Ursa, with the matron at her heels, and went at once to her knees in a smooth, graceful motion.

“Prince Ozai,” she said.

She looked different in her rigid school uniform, with her hair tied back. Idly, his mind brought up a different image – a memory of her dancing, in a flowing red skirt, long hair undone. And flames all around her, useless in combat but lovely to look at.

He was pleased to notice that her face was as pretty as he remembered. It hadn’t just been the charm of the Ember Island, then – or the rice wine – which had coloured his recollections. 

A shy smile curved her full lips, amber-coloured eyes disappearing beneath the fanned black eyelashes as she remembered her manners and dropped her gaze. 

Strange. She had looked at him quite boldly, and on several memorable occasions. She must have been remembering them now, as faint blush coloured her cheeks.

“Lady Ursa,” he said formally.

Then he dismissed the matron. Ursa sat motionless, her posture perfect, slender pale hands folded demurely in her lap. 

At long last, they were alone. She was still minding her manners, gaze lowered, so he took a moment to admire her, re-learning the delicate curves of her face and body. Longing, perhaps, to close the distance between them. But this would have to wait until a more opportune moment.

“It is a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

“You as well, my lord,” she said. “Albeit an unexpected one.”

Her eyes flickered up to judge his reaction at the gently teasing tone, then dropped again.

“You are aware that my brother, Prince Iroh, is soon to return to the Capitol,” he said. 

To celebrate yet another victory. To be greeted with all the pomp and circumstance they should not, strictly speaking, splurge on in times of war. But Fire Lord Azulon spared no expense when it came to his firstborn.

“I am,” Ursa said.

“There will be a great feast in celebration,” Ozai said. “I would be honoured if you accompanied me.”

That surprised her enough to have her raise her eyes and, for the first time since Ember Island, meet his gaze. This was a lapse in etiquette that he was willing to let slide, however, so long as she looked at him that way – wide-eyed with excitement, blush colouring her cheeks.

“To the Royal Palace? That’s—I mean” she paused, searching for the appropriate answer. A small smile played at her lips. “I would love to.”

“Excellent,” Ozai said. 

There were no more words to offer, not unless he meant to share them with the entire building. But he was content, and that contentment showed on his face. 

He took his leave, passing the bowing servants and the disapproving matron, out into the street and the awaiting palanquin that was to carry him home.

At least now he had something to look forward to.


	2. The Party

Ursa had been entirely unsuccessful in hiding her excitement. Still, Ozai was not heartless enough to not find her wide-eyed enthusiasm charming.

“It’s hard to believe you grew up here,” she said, bemused, as he gave her a tour of the Palace. They still had time before the celebrations were scheduled to begin. Besides, he’d rather be here with the girl on his arm than practicing his bows so that he could properly acknowledge his damned brother. 

He had had his manservant arrange for something appropriate for her to wear. The rich dress robes, embroidered with flowers, fitted her well. Her hair and face had been made up by a professional, too. One could hardly distinguish her from the ladies born and raised in the Capitol.

Above all else, he was conscious of her closeness as they walked side by side. He missed touching her soft, sun-warm skin, visible above the collar of her robes. Such blatant display, however, would only feed the court gossip, and he wasn’t in the mood to weather Fire Lord’s disapproval.

The gardens were pretty enough, bathed in sunlight, the vegetation lush and vibrant. Ursa regarded them with particular interest, and explained when prompted, “My mother is an avid gardener, and these plants are native to the Fire Islands. She’d love to see them.”

“I see,” said Ozai. One plant was not much different to another, but he refrained from saying so. Instead he spoke, “Once the situation in the colonies stabilizes, we will be able to bring them up to the standards set by the Islands. In a few years’ time, life there will be vastly improved.”

“Oh, they aren’t all bad,” said Ursa cheerfully. “They are so different from the Islands, true, but all the more interesting for it. Of course,” she said, sombre now, “the main issue we are dealing with is security. Insurgents, bandits, deserters—I’m sure you are aware of all that.”

“I am,” he said. “In fact, soon I will have to leave the Capitol to oversee the situation myself. Fire Lord’s orders.”

Because of course. Iroh got the splendour of conquest, while Ozai was sent after him to clean up the mess. Small-scale rebellions that were beneath Iroh’s station, and the tour of mines that supplied iron and coal to their Fleet. That, at least, he could look forward to; few people were aware of just how dependant the Fire Nation was on its colonies for the precious resources, and Ozai was in unique position to use this knowledge as leverage.

“That’s a huge responsibility,” Ursa said, awestruck. “And your father trusts you with it – you must be honoured.”

“That’s—one way of looking at it, yes,” Ozai said, somewhat dumb-founded. But Ursa was new to the Capitol and to ways of the Court. Her opinion didn’t matter much.

She leaned a little closer when they stepped through an ornate gate. Through great effort of will, he managed not to wrap his arm around her slender waist and pull her in even further.

Patience. Patience was the key.

He stiffened a fraction when he heard the sound of the gongs, and felt the girl startle.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s time for the celebration to begin,” Ozai said. “Which means I have to go and make an appearance.” Foregoing propriety and tradition, he took advantage of the solitude and bent down to kiss her soft cheek. The scent of her perfume made his head swim. “I’ll find you afterwards.”

Her eyebrows were raised in silent question, and that in turn took Ozai by surprise, maybe even tainted with irritation. Surely she did not expect him to bring a daughter of a colonial magistrate to the official part of the celebrations? He was, first and foremost, Prince of the Fire Nation; duty always came first.

***

It was a long speech to weather. The heralds listed Iroh’s many victories, exaggerated or otherwise, in their loud booming voices that carried all over the tightly-packed Plaza. But worse then the sight of his brother’s back as he graciously accepted the crowd’s approval was that of his infant son, Lu Ten. Not yet able to stand on his own, he had to be carried by an elderly Fire Sage and yet was still presented before Ozai himself.

When he was younger, Ozai used to pretend it was his own name the crowds were cheering, his own face pasted on every portrait in every important building all across the Nation. Such silly games were beneath him now, of course. It was much more productive to start making them a reality.

He did his part of bowing and praising, flawless so as not to catch the Fire Lord’s attention. Iroh looked at him briefly, smiling in that good-natured way that made him look a bit simple. It was dangerous to underestimate him – his brother had a keen, strategic mind beneath his amiable exterior – but the forced joviality was unbecoming of an heir to the throne. Still, Ozai acknowledged him in turn, willing some semblance of sincerity onto his features as he smiled. 

“Brother,” he said, pleasant. “It’s good to have you back.”

The lie sat heavy and sour on his tongue, but it placated Iroh.

It was a long, dull procession, from the Plaza to the Palace and its magnificent pavilion. Ozai had a brief respite from the monotony of it when he stepped up to take his part in the firebending demonstration. In this, at least, no one could call him second-best; fire sprang blazing from his fists, hotter and more powerful than that of anyone else. Blood coursed faster through his veins, the way it always did when he was bending. The exhilaration of it showed on his face; he wondered if Ursa was watching.

Finally, the Fire Lord declared the formal part to be over. The crowds fanned out, mingling, conversing in subdued voices while the booming war drums and marching music gave way to gentler tunes, more fit for dancing. 

Ozai’s presence was no longer required, Azulon and Ilah’s attention being firmly on Iroh. He took his leave, stepping down from the raised podium and among the black-red-gold throng of people. He made polite conversation where it was necessary, until he caught sight of Ursa.

She had a natural charm to her, so he wasn’t surprised to find her engaged in an animated conversation. But there was something deeply, thoroughly satisfying about the way she smiled at the sight of him, and at once accepted the arm he offered her.

“You must be very proud of your brother,” she said later as they circled the vast ballroom, exchanging pleasantries and short conversations with the other guests. Her voice was pitched low, brimming with excitement, amber eyes shining as she took in the sights.

And yet, it was _Iroh_ she wanted to talk about. She said nothing about Ozai’s display – no, it had to be Iroh.

“He is a credit to our Nation,” Ozai said automatically.

“Yes, of course,” Ursa sounded thoughtful. “It’s just—”

“What?” he asked, more sharply than he intended.

He felt her tense beside him, saying nothing. He had to take a few deep breaths to calm down.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Ozai said.

Ursa didn’t reply. She was troubled – he could see her biting her lip out of the corner of his eye. And the look in her eyes was faraway. Curse Iroh for coming between the two of them, yet again ruining Ozai’s evening.

They came across another group of noblemen eager to rub elbows with royalty. Ozai was mostly silent, letting Ursa carry the conversation. She was quick enough to pick up names and faces, playing the part of a Capitol noblewoman well. Her accent, however, was still noticeably colonial, and people took notice. Ozai bristled with anger at their curious looks and poorly concealed smirks. 

He knew his choice of partner for the evening was questionable. He could do better; of course he could. No young lady of good birth would refuse his invitation. And yet it was Ursa he was drawn to, and the vivid memory of her smiles and kisses that kept him up at night. 

War Minister, the blubbering old fool, asked him outright; Ozai remembered that the man had hoped to marry his plain, uninteresting, non-bending daughter to Iroh or Ozai himself, and very nearly laughed in his face.

“I am soon to depart for a mission in the colonies,” he said. “Lady Ursa has been able to provide me with first-hand expertise.”

“I rather think our Intelligence is more reliable than the word of an uneducated little girl,” the Minister replied with obvious distaste. 

He could see Ursa open her mouth, eyes narrowed in outrage, and squeezed her elbow in warning.

“Every information counts,” Ozai said. “Now if you will excuse us…”

Ursa allowed herself to be led away, but her posture was stiff and her smile gone.

“Little girl!” she seethed. “That sour, old—”

“Be silent,” Ozai commanded. 

Uncaring, Ursa continued in a low voice, “And I _am_ educated, thank you very much – it’s a process, true—”

“I said, _be silent_.”

She looked at him, wide-eyed. If she dared disobey him again—if she offended anyone—she was here as Ozai’s guest, any dishonour would reflect terribly on _him_.

But she didn’t. She dropped her gaze, face carefully blank. He did not like that; he did not like not knowing what she thought. Nevertheless, it was good enough for now.

Much quieter now, Ursa spoke only when spoken to, her charm gone. That, too, was irritating. But he couldn’t very well admonish her now, with eyes and ears trained on them. Instead he steered her towards the dancefloor, and was pleased to notice she brightened up considerably when he slipped his hand into hers.

“I thought you didn’t enjoy that,” she said.

Her slender palm fitted neatly into his own; the other rested on his shoulder. Her tone and posture were still stiff, but she followed his lead without question.

“I don’t,” Ozai said.

Nothing worthwhile could be accomplished through dancing. He supposed it was a fine exercise – it certainly kept Ursa’s movements fluid and graceful, but the same could be accomplished through rigorous firebending exercise. By her own admission she had no taste for combat, save for the mandatory military training every Fire Nation citizen periodically went through. 

As a firebender, she was competent enough, even if she lacked raw power. He supposed it was due to her kind, gentle nature. But her dancing was exquisite; Ozai led her only as much as was necessary without losing face, and let her spin and twirl at her own pace. 

It had the desired effect. Soon she was smiling again, brilliant, breath coming quicker and cheeks flushed. She moved closer, too, radiating heat, her smell intoxicating.

He could almost believe they were back on the Ember Island, at an informal gathering surrounded by people Ozai’s or Ursa’s age. There was a certain liberty in losing himself in the flow of music and Ursa’s open joy, untainted by the Capitol’s cutthroat politics. 

But this wasn’t Ember Island. They were watched by Ministers and high-ranking military officials, and the Fire Lord himself. Ursa was aware of that, too, infinitely more restrained than he knew she could be.

“I think you lied to me,” she murmured when the slower tune brought them closer. 

“Shut up,” he said without heat.

They danced until propriety demanded they return to the flow of conversation. Several men eyed Ursa with newfound appreciation, but no one would dare approach her while she was with the Prince – and if they did, Ozai would gladly challenge them to an Agni Kai just for the thrill of it.

The Cultural Minister was another one on his list for the evening, and he was once again glad to have brought Ursa along. She had a peculiar fascination with theatre that the old man shared, and all Ozai had to do was feign interest in their conversation. 

Everything was going smoothly, so obviously Iroh chose that moment to materialize.

“Prince—General Iroh,” Ursa fumbled, putting her hands together into the shape of the flame and bowing. “It’s an honour.”

She was never this flustered around Ozai. Maybe because he was shirtless and soaking wet when they first met, having just stepped out from the ocean. She didn’t even know who he was until after they finished playing ball, no more deferent towards him than she was towards the sons of low-ranking military officers. 

But of course. For Iroh, she bowed.

“My, my,” Iroh said amiably. “Now I see why my brother was so eager to get away.”

Ursa flushed.

“I’m new to the Capitol,” she explained. “And I don’t really know anybody here. Prince Ozai was kind enough to invite me.”

“Such a lovely young lady deserves better than to be kept waiting,” Iroh said, with an infuriating smile.

Damn him. Damn them _both_. He had no _right_ to say things like that towards Ursa, and she should know better than offer him that shy, gentle smile—

His grip on Ursa’s elbow grew forceful, muscles coiling to yank her away. It was childish, it was weakness on his part to act this way. Iroh would think him pathetic, insecure, unable to keep a woman’s attention on himself—

Iroh’s gaze dropped to where Ozai held Ursa’s arm, face clouding with disapproval. Ozai willed his muscles to relax. He couldn’t risk Iroh making a scene. Besides, he was probably hurting Ursa, and the last thing he needed was for her to be mad at him.

He had to stand there, silent, while they exchanged pleasantries. It wasn’t the time and place – no, scratch that. It wasn’t in his power to stop her from talking to Iroh. They could talk and smile and laugh at him behind his back, because he was second, lesser, unimportant. 

“Alas, duty calls,” Iroh said, charming as ever, as more and more people swarmed around to speak to him. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Ursa. Hopefully my brother will invite you again. Perhaps tomorrow for tea?”

“I would love to,” Ursa said, shocked and delighted all at once.

“I’m sure I will,” said Ozai, who would rather die than see the two of them at the same table.

There were other people he needed to speak to. Allies to acquire and plans to be made. But his mind was still on fire, thoughts scattered in every direction. He was aware that Ursa gently steered him towards the balcony, where the night air was like a balm on his heated skin.

She was looking at him, ethereal and lovely in the moonlight. He had planned—he certainly hadn’t planned on running his fingers on her soft cheek, or capturing her lips in a kiss. 

He was burning with rage and desire, and this just wasn’t enough. 

“Stay with me,” he said. “Tonight.”

Immediately he cursed his treacherous tongue. He was going to approach this subject in a more subtle way, charm and invite her. But it came out hoarse and desperate, as if he needed it – as if he needed _her_.

She kissed him softly, warm and comforting, with a quiet _Yes_ whispered against his lips.

***

Ursa’s robes were autumn-coloured, more yellow and orange than red. The warm tones suited her well, and looked lovely indeed against the deep, rich red of Ozai’s bedroom. She stood out, even in the dim half-light of the lanterns which, embarrassingly enough, sprang to life as soon as they entered.

She was in his arms as soon as the door closed behind them, offering her mouth in sweet, complete surrender. Her hands tugged at the sharp metal of Ozai’s ceremonial armour, frustrated noise escaping her lips in between his feverish kisses.

He had a much easier time with her robes. The silk belt slipped through his fingers, folds of the heavy material parting at her chest, exposing fair skin and the enticing curve of her breasts. 

“Careful, it’s expensive,” she said, laughing, when Ozai’s grip on her robes grew too forceful, crumpling the material.

“I know. I paid for it,” he said, careless.

She was struggling with the straps of his armour, but paused at that. Some new tension showed in her face.

“Didn’t want me to show up dressed like a peasant, did you?” she asked, tone carefully neutral.

“Didn’t want you to feel out of place,” he said.

Her eyes were focused on her task, deft fingers unbuckling pieces of the armour. Ozai usually had servants do this, sparing his lovers the awkwardness of figuring out the mechanics. But there was an odd sense of intimacy in having Ursa strip him bare like this.

The layer of cloth he wore beneath the armour was red, of course. She spread it open, sliding her warm palms against his naked chest. His breath caught at the sensation.

“Ozai—” she began.

He captured her mouth when she would have said anything more and walked her backwards towards the bed. The robe was at her shoulders now, hanging completely open. Her breast fitted so well into the palm of his hand, soft, nipple hardening at his touch.

He had seen her naked before, and in various states of undress. But she never looked more beautiful than she did now, pale against the red of Ozai’s own bed, eager and willing and _his_. 

He felt a rush of possessive jealousy, nearly as tangible and overpowering as his desire. He kissed her, open-mouthed and wet, teeth scraping skin, staking his claim. Her fingers tangled in his hair, but he was too far gone to mind, dipping his head between her legs. Every part of her belonged to him, as did the soft, gasping sounds of pleasure, the broken syllables of his own name.

She lay there, panting, weak, incoherent; drew him towards her, legs wrapping around Ozai’s hips. As he entered her, he thought that alone would be enough – the warm, welcoming heat of her body, so completely surrounding his own. But they moved together, messy and uncoordinated, until he could move no more and collapsed on top of her, breathing harshly.

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me again,” she said afterwards, palm laid over his chest, very near his heart.

It felt good. Peaceful, to lay like this, drifting to sleep. He could almost hear the sound of ocean waves crashing on the beach, as if they were back on Ember Island. Tomorrow he would have to play the role of Iroh’s adoring younger brother, but for now—for now, there was just Ursa, who didn’t care that he was second.


	3. The Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the party, and two weeks that followed.

He awoke to a whole plethora of sensation: sunlight on his face, tingling numbness in his left arm, and the heavy warmth of another’s body, shifting minutely with every breath. He would have enjoyed the softness of Ursa’s skin, if only he could regain feeling in his arm. 

She made a small noise of protest when he extracted himself from beneath her, brows pinching together and hand curling around Ozai’s waist with surprising strength.

“S’ just sunrise,” she said, slurring her words slightly. “Sleep.”

“I have training,” Ozai said, amused.

“Train later?” Ursa asked, huge amber eyes blinking open. There was a bleary, unfocused look to them, which he found hopelessly charming.

Enticing as the thought was – and it _was_ – it was no reason to skip training. He did not attain the rank of a master firebender by lazing around in bed with a lover.

“Sunrise is the best time to practice firebending” he said. “Isn’t that what they teach at the Academy, too?”

“Yes, of course,” said Ursa. “But there was a huge party yesterday, everybody is going to be hungover anyway.”

“That’s no excuse,” he said.

She stared at him for a few minutes, face shadowed by the curtain of Ozai’s own hair.

“Spirits,” she said, in wonder. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Ozai scoffed. His irritation was softened by her delicate fingers brushing against his jaw.

“No, that’s admirable,” she said. “But, um, is it alright if I stay here?”

“Yes,” he said. “The Royal Spa is just down the hall. My servants will attend you. We can have breakfast afterwards…”

The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest told him that she was asleep before he was done talking. Ozai fought a conflicting wave of emotion, settling on deep-seated fondness. Then he dressed and left the girl be.

***

Iroh was here. Of course he was.

Ozai went through his warm-up exercises, dead-set on ignoring his brother’s presence. The general had attracted quite a crowd of sycophants, which Ozai would not be a part of.

Anger simmered beneath his skin, lending even more power to his bending. He executed a couple of complicated forms, fire trailing his fists and scorching the ground beneath his bare feet. Throughout all this his breathing remained even and under perfect control, despite his irritation.

Zhao inclined his head in greeting, stepping into the sparring ring. He was a talented bender if a bit too prone to emotional outbursts to achieve true mastery of the element. Still, his views aligned with Ozai’s vision, and his rise through the military ranks made him a valuable ally. Ozai would grant him the honour of sparring with the Prince.

When he was done with Zhao – patches of irritated pink skin marking his bare torso, grudging respect in his eyes – Ozai bowed, stiffly, and was faced with Iroh’s smiling face.

“It’s quite amazing to see you have come so far, brother,” Iroh said good-naturedly. “I remember you when you were too small to bend at all.”

A couple of men and women hid their smiles behind their raised hands. Rightly so, because Ozai was willing and able to punish such blatant disrespect.

“That was a long time ago,” Ozai said.

Oh, he could play this game as well as Iroh did. Fraternal bonding, then; never mind that Iroh barely saw him before he could bend. Never mind that he exceeded his older brother’s abilities almost in every way, but was always thought less capable over some imagined short-comings. Never mind their father never let him forget that Iroh was shooting through the ranks at Ozai’s age, while Ozai’s time in the military was always fraught with failure.

Too impatient, he had been called. Pushing the men too far. Unwilling to listen, unwilling to compromise—

Fire ignited around his fists.

“Would you honour me with a fight, General?” Ozai asked, smiling through clenched teeth.

Iroh was frowning, but climbed up to the ring to the cheers of the other soldiers. He was shorter, stouter of build and getting wider and wider around the waist; physically, he was nothing compared to Ozai’s height and broad shoulders. And yet it was him who was revered across the Nation, while Ozai’s own name was barely known.

Few years ago, he would have attacked without waiting for Iroh to assume the proper form; he knew better now. Conscious of their audience, he would play this fairly.

He waited for Iroh’s attack, then shot back with a powerful jet of flame, dispelling Iroh’s and forcing him into the defensive. Then he moved, dancing around, his fire all-consuming, fuelled by rage.

If Iroh thought this would be a friendly spar between brothers, he was sorely mistaken. Ozai watched the realization dawn on his face and smirked.

The Dragon of the West, Iroh was called. Well, Ozai had his eyes set on a much greater title.

***

Servants bowed and stepped out of his way as he passed, attuned to his moods by now. Ozai stalked the low-lit corridor, breathing harshly in an effort not to set the tapestries on fire.

Applause and cheers were still a booming echo in his mind. He had been outmanoeuvred, falling yet again for Iroh’s feigned joviality. He fell – he could feel the scorched, cracked stone of the training ground against his back, Iroh standing over him, obscuring the quickly raising sun.

Surrender tasted vile on his tongue. Accepting Iroh’s hand on his shoulder was even worse – _Arrogance is your greatest enemy_ , Iroh had said. _Master it before it masters you_.

Ozai said nothing to this, turning on his heel and walking away. It was childish of him, and no doubt the onlookers thought so, their judgemental eyes burning worse than Iroh’s fire. Nevertheless, if he stayed there, he would scream.

The damp air of the bathhouse felt pleasant on his burned skin. Servants were already prepared to receive him, wordless – but then he noted, with raging fury, that his personal bath was occupied. Who would _dare_ —

“Ozai!” Ursa said, voice clear and sweet. “How was training?”

She was submerged to her neck, hair tied into a loose knot above her head, clouds of steam surrounding her. For a moment Ozai stood, silent. This reception – this pure, uncomplicated joy she felt at the sight of him – was new and uncharted territory. He had forgotten she was still here, on his own invitation no less, but now—

“It went well,” he said.

She swam closer, folding her arms on the tiled edge of the pool to look up at him.

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” he said, and watched her shrink back at the aggressive sound of his voice. Before guilt could settle, he began disrobing, dropping his clothes on the floor for a servant to pick up.

The water was steaming hot already and brought very near to boiling when it came in contact with his skin. Ursa was wise enough to keep her distance until he got his power under control.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, warmth seeping into his tense muscles. A pleasant, flowery scent hung in the air, possibly a fragrant oil added for Ursa’s benefit; he never bothered with such nonsense. 

He heard her approach him now, water splashing slightly as she moved. Her company was a bizarre sensation for the rawness of his anger, irritating and soothing all at once. Made even more so when he felt her smaller hand settle on his chest, next to the burn Iroh had dealt him. Part of him wanted to throw her out as she was, naked and dripping wet; but he felt an odd sense of comfort at her touch, granting him a sense of focus amidst his scattered thoughts.

“This place is wonderful,” Ursa said. “Thank you for inviting me.”

He made a vague noise in response. The fingers of her other hand touched his face, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. Her lips pressed to his jaw, the length of her body almost in his lap now, weightless in the water. 

A whole new feeling burned within him now, eating through rage and humiliation. He curled his arm around her slender waist and caught her mouth in a kiss, letting it consume him.

***

Lo and Li were never a good sign, ever since he figured out that they were more spies than caretakers and he should be more guarded around them. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“The Fire Lord requests your presence,” said Li.

“He wishes to share dinner with his family,” said Lo. 

Ozai snorted, then remembered himself.

“Do thank him,” he said. “I will be there.”

“The invitation extends to your guest, as well.”

Damn. Damn damn _damn_. Ever since Iroh’s party two weeks ago, Ursa had spent almost every night at the Palace. He was a fool to think the indiscretion would go unnoticed.

“Very well,” he said and dismissed the two of them.

Ursa was out in the garden, sketching the plants. She laid down the piece of charcoal and looked at him quizzically when he told her the news.

“The _Fire Lord_ invited me to dinner?” she asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Ozai said. “Do you have anything appropriate to wear?”

“I—” 

Her manners were decent enough, but her dress was plain and unadorned and her accent noticeably colonial. And Lady Ilah was very particular about this… damn.

She wasn’t looking at him, eyes fixated on the ground.

“You think I will embarrass you in front of your parents,” she said, a quiet, detached note to her voice.

He hated when she shut herself off like that – normally so open and expressive, her face was completely blank now. 

“You don’t know what they are like,” he said.

“No, I suppose not,” she paused, tense, gripping her dress with obvious unease. “Ozai, this really isn’t a good idea.”

“I know,” he said. “But I can’t disobey my father. So hurry up.”


	4. The Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fire Nation Royal Family sits down for dinner. Ozai and Ursa argue.

The further they went inside the Palace, the more nervous Ursa became. She hid it well, at least outwardly, but by the time they got the Royal Gallery her grip on Ozai’s arm was tight enough to threaten cutting off circulation in his fingers.

They stopped briefly by the portrait of Fire Lord Sozin. The comet depicted above his head was due to appear again in less than twenty years. Ozai wondered if he’d be there to see it.

“It’s hard to believe he’s your grandfather,” Ursa said, brows pinching. “Have you ever met him?”

“No, he died more than thirty years before I was born,” Ozai said. 

“I see,” she said. She let go of his arm and walked a few steps down the hall. “And this is your father?”

“Yes.”

In truth, the man in the picture was decades younger and painted in such flattering manner, Ozai could hardly recognize him. There was another, more recent portrait that caught Ursa’s attention, however.

“Aww,” she said. “Is that you?”

“No.”

“You look so young!”

“Please stop.”

It was a family picture: Azulon, Ilah, nearly full-grown Iroh and a seven-year-old Ozai. He loathed that one.

Ursa was of a different opinion, clasping her hands together and eyes shining with delight.

“You were so cute,” she said.

“I was no such thing,” Ozai said.

She eyed him knowingly and took his arm, much gentler now. The last portrait in the private gallery was a picture of Iroh, his now-dead wife and infant Lu Ten. Of course Iroh got to wear a general’s armour, while the only image of Ozai in this room depicted him as a child.

“My mother hung all my baby pictures in our living room,” Ursa said. “I could never persuade her to take them down.”

“You commissioned portraits for your family?”

“One or two,” Ursa said. “But she’s a pretty decent artist herself.”

“As are you,” Ozai said.

They moved at a faster pace now, down a well-lit corridor. He could see her bemused half-smile and felt suddenly self-conscious.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m trying to get used to you being nice.”

“I’m not being nice, I’m just stating a fact.”

The heavy, ornate door at the end of the hall were flanked by guards. The formal dining room lay just behind them. It wasn’t often that they all took their meals together – wasn’t often that all four of them were in the Capital at the same time, and rarer still that they wanted to spend time together – so the ceremony was to be expected.

Whatever reply she was going to make wasn’t forthcoming. He saw her bite her lower lip and then stop immediately afterwards, once she remembered she was wearing lipstick. Her face smoothed with a visible effort of will, adopting a courtly mask. She slowed down to a more elegant step, folding her hands in front of her.

He missed the touch of her hand on his arm. It was odd how quickly he got used to these things, and how acutely he felt their loss. But it couldn’t be helped. They would walk side-by-side, as was proper.

At their approach, the guards were already pushing the door open. Ilah and Iroh were seated at the table, as was Lu Ten, currently demonstrating his mastery of the art of picking things up with chopsticks, to the delight of his father and grandmother.

“Ozai,” Ilah said, with chilling politeness. “Do sit down. And this is your companion?”

“My lady,” Ursa said, bowing deeply. 

“Hmm,” Ilah regarded her with her sharp, yellow eyes. “Yes, I see. You were born in the Colonies, weren’t you?”

Thankfully, Ursa had no time to reply. Azulon entered the hall and she had to kneel down, forehead touching the floor, until the Fire Lord took his seat. Then she remained silent and unmoving, as the servants poured wine to all their glasses and the dinner began in earnest.

The air in the room was heavy enough to be cut with a knife. Ozai, had he not been nervous himself, would be amused by Ursa’s blank expression. He made polite small talk when necessary, but it did not escape his attention that Azulon’s piercing, judgemental gaze slid from person to person, until it rested on the girl. She barely managed to lay down her chopsticks with trembling hands, unnerved.

“What’s your name, child?” Azulon asked.

“Ursa, my lord.”

Her timid voice could barely be heard in the room, above the ever-present roaring of flames that accompanied the Fire Lord wherever he went. It clearly displeased the old man.

“Speak up, for Agni’s sake,” he said.

Ursa was pale beneath her make-up, but she managed to get her nerves under control.

“Yes, my lord,” she said, loud and clear now.

“So you are Ozai’s most recent paramour,” Azulon said, something like a smile stretching his thin lips. “Iroh had been engaged already at his age, but Ozai was never one for commitment.”

“I was luckier than most,” Iroh said, which was just as well.

Marriage never appealed to Ozai as a concept. He knew he’d one day have to settle down and procure heirs, as Azulon was prone to remind him, but the moment was never right. He had yet to find a woman who could bring him the right political leverage, and he wasn’t mad enough to marry out of pure sentimentality, the way Iroh did.

“Born and raised in the Colonies,” Azulon said.

He hadn’t asked a question, but there was a pause after his statement that Ursa felt obligated to fill in.

“Yes, my lord. The province of Hira, my lord. My father is magistrate there.”

“I am aware of this,” Azulon said, bony fingers lacing together. “What are your parents’ names?”

There was an unpleasant note in his voice. Ozai felt a prickling of sweat on the back of his neck.

“Jinzuk and Rina,” Ursa replied.

“And your grandparents?”

There was something he must have missed. Ursa’s amber eyes widened a fraction, an almost pleading look to them. The deliberate, cold look in his father’s eyes was something Ozai was altogether all too familiar with. All of a sudden he felt a surge of weak, cowardly gratitude that Ursa was between himself and the man—

He tried to fight those thoughts. She did not deserve Azulon’s anger; she did _not_.

“My lord—” Ursa began.

“I asked for the name of your grandparents. You will regret making me ask twice.”

She swallowed, visibly, and said: “On my mother’s side, Roku and Ta Min.”

It took a moment for the name to register. Ozai realized he must have been staring ahead blankly, when Azulon’s knife-sharp focus swung in his direction.

“Surely even you remember that Avatar Roku betrayed my honoured father and our glorious Nation,” Azulon said. “And yet you had the audacity to bring his descendant to our table. Tell me, was it treason or simple idiocy?”

The rage was enough to break through the initial shock of hearing the news.

“I was not aware—” he began.

“No, of course you were not. It would be too much to expect you to pay attention to anything other than yourself,” Azulon said, stiff with distaste. When no answer was forthcoming, he continued: “I suppose her pretty face was more important to you than her grandfather’s treachery?”

His skin crawled at the sound of his father’s raspy voice calling Ursa pretty. But Ursa responded before he could stop her, anger flashing in her amber eyes.

“My grandfather’s crimes are not my own,” she said. “And my parents served the Fire Nation faithfully—”

“I did not ask you to speak,” Azulon hissed. His words were quiet, but the fire in the room roared and shot upwards, the heat sweeping over them like a wave. “Know your place!”

She was going to keep talking, Ozai realized with a sinking feeling. And if he were to speak up for her, he would bear the brunt of Azulon’s anger – and for what? She had lied to him. She should have told him about Avatar Roku. If she had only been honest, _none of this would have happened_.

Disrespecting the Fire Lord was a crime punished without mercy. Ursa would be maimed or killed—and no matter how angry he was, the thought was like a stab of physical pain.

“Father,” Iroh said. “Roku is dead. The girl cannot be blamed for what happened long before she was born.”

Damned Iroh was the only person who could challenge the Fire Lord and get away with it. Not even their mother would dare face Azulon’s wrath, as Ozai was well aware. But Iroh, _darling_ Iroh could do whatever he damn well wanted. He did not have to be afraid, he wasn’t criticized for every little thing he said or did. And now Ursa’s safety relied on his goodwill.

_That should have been me_ , Ozai thought. _If I were the Crown Prince_ —

“A poisoned tree will not bear healthy fruit,” Azulon said coldly.

“The teachers at the Academy praised her for being obedient, hardworking, and intelligent,” Ilah said matter-of-factly, as if she were describing a particularly well-behaved ostrich horse.

“They said the same about Ozai,” Azulon said. “I have doubts about their judgement.”

“We can give her a job at the Palace and observe her,” Ilah said. She then looked straight at Ursa, who was white-faced and doing a poor job of concealing her outrage. “Teach you some manners, too. But if you prove to be diligent and faithful, your grandfather’s crimes will not be held against you.”

There was a terrifying pause. Then Ursa bowed, stiffly, and said in a wooden voice, “I am honoured, my lady.”

She said no more after that, and the dinner proceeded in heavy silence.

***

He led her back to his chambers with a firm grip on her upper arm, walking so quickly she struggled to keep up. Having dismissed his servants and slammed the door shut, he turned around to face her.

Ursa had edged away from him, tense, defensive. Ready to flee at the moment’s notice. Ozai had seen this look before, had actively encouraged it at times. But it looked wrong on her somehow, twisting her features into something unfamiliar, so unlike the girl who smiled at him softly in the grey light of dawn and held onto him as they made love in the morning.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were Roku’s descendant?” he asked, furious.

“We don’t talk about him,” Ursa said. “Would you go around telling everyone you know that your grandfather was a traitor?”

Ozai’s fists clenched.

“Oh?” he asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Is that all I am to you? _Someone you know_?”

“No, of course not,” she said immediately, taking a few steps forward. Her eyes were so wide, and the hand she reached out to place on Ozai’s chest so gentle – but she had lied to him, deceived him, humiliated him. In the end she was just like everybody else, unreliable and untrustworthy, showing him nothing but mockery and disdain instead of the respect he was due.

“Ozai, please,” she said, oh-so-quietly. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” he asked, curling his fingers around her small palm. Heat was building up inside him, seeking release; he could feel the fire underneath his skin, and no doubt could she.

“I’m sorry. I know I should have told you,” she said. “I would have, if I knew your father would decide to get involved. But I just… don’t like to talk about it. Not many people know, anyway—”

“You thought my father wouldn’t know? You think he doesn’t keep track of the enemies of our nation?” Ozai laughed. “Perhaps I should, too.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I’m not your enemy,” she said.

“Then why are you here?” he asked. “Why play this game at all?”

“What game?” she asked, confused. “ _I like you_. I thought you knew that.”

“Do you?” he asked, almost crushing the delicate bones of her hand in his grip. She winced and tried to slip it free, but he wouldn’t let her.

She _liked_ him. What a stupid, nonsensical notion. He let himself believe that this was all there was to their relationship, sex and fun, but it was never that simple, was it? 

He shoved her away and stalked off, breathing through his nose. If he opened his mouth he’d either start screaming or firebending, and neither would be particularly dignified. He just needed to be rid of Ursa. She had, somehow, bypassed his defences and got under his skin; seduced him with her soft words and gentle touch. And now he paid for this weakness, losing whatever respect his father still had for him. Oh, how proud she had to be—

Ursa was biting her lip, tears glistening in her eyes. There was no pride there, no satisfaction in catching him off guard. If she was putting on a show, it was a damn good one.

She took in a deep, shaky breath.

“Your father is cruel,” she said. “I hope you know that. I should have told you about my grandfather, but he has no right to treat you this way.”

“He is the Fire Lord. He has every right.”

“He is your _father_ ,” she said. “Him being the Fire Lord doesn’t change that.”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” he said, dismissively.

The Fire Lord had all the power their Nation had to offer – all the power in the world. It would be his one day, but for now he had to play a dutiful son to Azulon.

Ursa was quiet. The way she looked at him was nothing like before – no joy, no admiration. Just deep sadness, almost pity.

He did not want her pity.

“You should go,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “I should.”

After a lengthy pause, she turned and walked towards the door with slow, careful steps. She would have said something more, but all he caught was a quiet, “Goodbye, Ozai.”


	5. The Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozai attends to his duties and then discusses his ~feelings~; Ursa makes a decision.

It was a relief to get out of the Capital for a few days and feel the ocean breeze in his hair. The mission wasn’t terribly exciting – a bunch of lowlifes pilfering military supplies en route to the frontlines. Ozai dealt with them swiftly and mercilessly, filled in his reports and sent them to the Fire Lord, and then proceeded with a tour of Colonial mines and factories.

“We need to think bigger,” Zhao had said, tapping the plans and notes laid on the table. “Our fleet is capable of more than transporting foot soldiers and raiding the barbarians of the Southern Water Tribe.”

“Good luck convincing the Fire Lord of that,” Ozai said drily. “He won’t move against the Northerners until after we have captured Ba Sing Se. Our resources are finite. We can’t afford to split them two ways.”

“Have you talked to him, sire?” Zhao asked.

Ozai supressed a wince.

“Yes.” _You are an arrogant fool_ , Azulon had said. “His victories against the Tribes were numerous, but he was never able to break through their defences.” _To think you can succeed where I had failed._ “Their fleet has an obvious advantage on ours.” _I would let you, but the lives of our men are more valuable than your pride._

“Fleet?” Zhao said derisively. “They think sails and oars are the last word in technology.”

Ozai sighed. “I was referring to waterbending.”

Zhao shut up for once, caught in contemplative silence. “What if it were possible to rob them of that advantage?”

Without their bending, the Tribes had only their primitive weapons and dwindling number of warriors. It would take no effort at all to subdue them. That was a feat neither Azulon nor Iroh managed…

“I would need more to convince the Fire Lord than ancient scrolls you found in a library in the desert,” Ozai said.

“Destiny has led me to that library,” Zhao said with feverish conviction.

“That may be so, but my father’s word on the matter is final,” Ozai said.

He sifted through the papers on his desk. Zhao had still not left, lost in his own fantasies.

“What about your word, sire?” Zhao asked.

Ozai paused. “My opinion is irrelevant. As you are very well aware.”

“Yet.”

Zhao had served under Iroh’s command, and Iroh had nothing but derision for the man. Zhao’s old master, Jeong Jeong, was a good friend of Iroh’s and had nothing favourable to say about his former student. So there was no foothold for Zhao there. Ozai was his only shot at the glory he craved.

Nevertheless, they were on a ship surrounded by his father’s man, and there was such thing as common sense.

“We will talk later,” Ozai said. “You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”

A quick salute and Zhao was gone. Ozai’s attention returned to the stack of papers.

The last stop on their journey was a harbour town in the Colonies, and the tedious task of sifting through their paperwork and thorough inspection of the warehouses, along with the presentation of recruits. Second or no, Ozai was still a prince, and his presence would remind the Colonies of where their loyalty should lie. And if not, well, he was ready to deal with insurgents as summarily as he did with the bandits.

There was a report signed by Jinzuk of Hira. Ursa’s father – he had some issues with bandits raiding their northern borders. Hira was relatively peaceful, mostly rural, their main contribution being rice, wheat, meat. Boring, but vital. And then there was the small mining outpost in the mountains, near the region’s capital and richest town.

Was it Ursa’s hometown? He had never asked. She mentioned living in the countryside, however. Perhaps they lived there and only arrived in town to deal with the official matters… But she also spoke fondly of the theatre, which had to be among a larger group of people. Her father wrote short, succinct paragraph, with only the bare minimum of schmoozing; perhaps Ozai should meet with the man—

He laid down the report in distaste. Damn. No. He would not be caught showing favouritism to one rural magistrate over another, just because he happened to be the father of a girl he had slept with and hadn’t even spoken to in weeks.

\--has it been weeks already? It seemed like only yesterday he woke up with Ursa in his arms—

Trying to shake the memory out of his mind, he chose to focus on tax reports. The numbers danced before his eyes, however. If he got distracted and allowed some little detail to slip his attention, Azulon would punish him severely.

Well, he was a prince. He could delegate.

He called for a servant and asked them to fetch Lee. He wasn’t the most discreet, as far as spying goes, but would get the job done. And this was something he should have arranged ages ago, anyway.

\--has Ursa told her parents about him? If so, what did she say?

Having explained to Lee what was required of him, Ozai banished all thoughts of Ursa from his mind. Instead, he focused on making sense of the mountain of papers before him, figuring out which of them were worthy of the Fire Lord’s attention. More importantly, which could be reported as his successes.

***

Predictably, Azulon wasn’t impressed.

That was the second day Ozai was back in the Capital after four weeks of absence, and already he was getting a headache. The meeting discussing the situation in the Colonies dragged on for hours, and he had to remain sharp and on-guard at all times. By the time the Fire Lord declared it to be over, Ozai was ready to start killing people.

He marched straight to his chambers and pulled off his armour as soon as the door shut behind him. Despite his tiredness, he was too agitated to sleep. Foolish, yes; he would be up at the crack of dawn, he always were. Nevertheless, he had to burn off the excess of energy, and there was only one way of achieving that.

The training grounds were almost empty at this hour. Ozai untied his robe and shook it off his shoulders, raising his arms far above his head. His muscles ached pleasantly when he stretched them thus; legs were stiff after hours and hours of sitting still. And the cool evening air was a blessing. The long exposure to sea breeze must have weakened him, because sitting in the flaming throne room had been unbearable.

He was about ready to begin, when he got a good look at the other person practicing. Specifically, the grace of her movements as she spun the fire around her slender body. The lightness of her step, more suited for dance than combat, contrasted with the uncharacteristic aggression of her punches and kicks. Apparently, Ozai wasn’t the one with some issues to work through. 

It took her a moment to notice him, which he spent trying not to stare too obviously.

“Prince Ozai,” she said quietly, and bowed.

Her shallow, rapid breaths made her chest rise and fall in quick succession. She really wasn’t wearing much; black strip of fabric binding her breasts and loose pants, hugging the curve of her hips. Her skin gleamed gold in the firelight—

“Lady Ursa,” he said, trying to hide his discomfort.

Her gaze slid over his bare chest and then snapped back to his face, a blush covering her cheeks.

“I trust your trip was successful,” she said, after a pause.

“It was,” he replied.

He rolled his shoulders and smirked when her eyes dropped again to follow the shift of his muscles.

“I didn’t expect to find you here at this hour,” he said. 

“My duties don’t give me much time to train during the day,” Ursa said.

His warm-up routine was quick and demanding, but it allowed him to feel the blood pumping through his vessels, the fire coming awake inside of him. And she was watching him; it was exhilarating. 

“Would you like to spar?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’m anywhere near to your level,” she said drily. 

“Very few are.”

Ursa’s eyes narrowed. 

“Prince Iroh claims that humility is the mark of a true master,” she said.

He snapped, and then leapt high, with a flying kick that sent a plume of fire hot and powerful enough to melt through the target dummies. When he landed lightly and turned in her direction, he saw that Ursa had taken a few steps back, wide-eyed, and felt a mixture of guilt and satisfaction overtaking the sudden rage.

“Iroh is a fool,” he said. 

She said nothing.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. Despite everything else, he needed her to understand that.

Ursa was still guarded when he approached. Her eyes were so guileless and expressive, unclouded by the cynicism and bitterness of court life. And it felt good to see her again; see her smile and hear her gentle voice. 

When she said nothing, he asked “Do you live here now?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Lady Ilah requested it. I serve as her assistant when I’m not taking at the Academy.”

“I don’t envy you that,” Ozai snorted.

Ursa gave him a faint, slightly troubled smile.

“Your mother is very strict,” she said. “But I’m grateful. I learn a lot—this will be invaluable when I return to Hira.”

He recalled the damp rice fields, the grazing cattle, the small town with its sturdy, inelegant architecture.

“Why would you want to go back there?” he asked. “With my mother’s recommendation, you could aim much higher than provincial magistrate.”

“Hira is my home,” she replied. “I know the place, I know the people… Dad used to take me to council meetings when I got home for the summer. Next year I’ll be able to join him full-time.”

He wanted her to keep talking, but not about that place. Certainly not about going back there.

“You would be foolish to let go of an opportunity like that,” he said, frowning.

“I was happy at Hira,” she said. “Aren’t you happy to be back home?”

Happiness was the last thing on his mind that day. Azulon had dragged every decision he had made, scrutinizing it for imperfections, in front of the entire Council. He was a strict, unforgiving teacher. Ozai had come dangerously close to cracking under his steely gaze. But he was thankful, in a way, that Azulon had given him opportunity to prune that weakness. There was no place for it in his life.

But was he happy? He supposed so; the Palace halls were familiar enough, and luxurious compared to the cramped, damp cabin at his ship. The food was better. Nobody tried to kill him, too. At least not overtly, like that group of unlucky bandits.

“I see,” Ursa said, her smile sympathetic and sad. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Ozai said.

“You didn’t have to.”

She was so beautiful when she smiled… but beauty wouldn’t last and wasn’t worth much. She had deceived him once already; she wasn’t trustworthy. Her company was pleasant, but there was nothing to gain by prolonging their interaction. The Fire Lord would disapprove if he continued to favour Roku’s descendant—

“I’m happy now,” he said, and then frowned. Was he? Why were they even _talking_ about this? They were both adults, both had their own duties to attend to… but she had asked. It was a question Ozai seldom pondered.

“I’m glad,” she said.

She flinched when he stepped closer.

“I missed you,” he said in a low, urgent voice. The admission hurt, but it was true. He had never thought himself a sentimental fool, but apparently he _was_.

“Ozai—”

“Tell me you missed me, too.” She had to. He couldn’t have been alone in this insanity. This wasn’t just his own, pathetic weakness that had him longing for a kind word and gentle touch – there had to be more.

Her silence rang in his ears. She did not even care enough to lie – like Azulon, like Ilah. Ozai was never important enough to warrant their respect or even their attention, not when they could lavish it all on their firstborn.

“I did,” she said quietly. “I did, truly. I’m glad to see you again. But I’ve been thinking about this – about us – and I—don’t think this is right.” She took in a deep, shaky breath. “I don’t think I’m right for you, Ozai. I’m not what you need. Maybe we should try being friends instead—”

His thoughts went into overdrive, trying to make sense of her words.

“Is this about Roku?” he asked. “I don’t care about _that_ , only my father does—”

“It’s not about Roku,” she said. 

He looked down on her.

“I never said I needed you.” A bitter lie indeed.

“I never said you did,” she said. “But you need _someone_ , Ozai. You need to open up and learn to trust people—”

“Like I trusted you?” he snapped, furious.

“You didn’t,” she said gently. 

“Oh, you think you know me so well,” he said. 

What if she did? What if she really could see his weakness and fear, and not the man he had to be if he were to achieve his goal? Was this why—was he not even good enough for a country girl from a disgraced family?

“I really don’t,” she said, a helpless expression on her face. “I wish I knew how to help you, but I don’t. Maybe somebody else can.”

“I don’t _need_ help,” he said, louder than he had intended. 

A curious servant looked in their direction, then cowered in fear when Ozai glared at him. He felt his own anger like a living thing, coiled to strike. First Azulon, then Iroh’s good-natured, patronizing teasing, and now _this_ —it shouldn’t be like that. He shouldn’t be at the mercy of these people. His father, brother, mother, even Ursa; they showed him nothing but contempt and disrespect.

“What I _need_ right now is a sparring partner,” he said, mastering his voice. “And that can’t be you.”

He would hurt her. He knew he would. He hoped she understood that.

“All right,” Ursa said. “Um. I will see you around. Prince Ozai,” she bowed, and was gone.


	6. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozai adjusts to life in the friendzone.

_Friends_ , she had said. 

Well, so fair their friendship consisted mainly of avoiding one another. It worked well for the past two weeks, but today Ozai had been invited to have tea with his mother; an occasion they both dreaded. Ursa was there as a buffer of a sort, serving tea and doing a decent job of keeping the conversation civil. She kept her gaze down and Ozai was determined not to look directly at her, their voices neutral and polite.

She went when Ilah dismissed her. Ozai sipped his tea and weathered his mother’s scrutinizing gaze.

“I take it you two are no longer dating,” Ilah said.

“No.”

“Good,” Ilah said. “You can do better.”

“If you are displeased with Ursa, you can send her away,” Ozai said, a touch defensively.

Ilah sighed.

“Don’t get me wrong. She is a sweet child. Obedient, hard-working, intelligent… quite a catch, for a Colony girl. But _you_ are a prince.”

“Iroh dallied with women of different backgrounds,” Ozai pointed out. 

“After he was widowed and had produced an heir,” Ilah said. She then set down her cup with a sharp clink of the porcelain. “Spirits, Ozai, you weren’t thinking of _marrying_ this girl, were you?”

“No,” Ozai said coldly. “And besides, it hardly matters now.”

Ilah was still staring at him, a disapproving frown on her wrinkled forehead. 

“What’s so special about her?” she asked. 

“Nothing,” Ozai said.

The idea of discussing his sex life with his mother made him shake with disgust. Besides, there really was nothing special about Ursa whatsoever – other than that he liked the way she danced and smiled and laughed; he liked kissing her soft lips, and the touch of her hands on his skin; or the way she made his days brighter—damn.

“Why did you break up, if you like her so much?” Ilah said.

“I don’t,” Ozai said sharply. “And I have decided to search for a more suitable partner. Like you have advised me to.”

Ilah did not buy the lie in the slightest, but apparently decided to let it go.

“A sensible decision,” she said. “It’s seldom I get to see you make those.”

Was that jab necessary? He felt a familiar pang of distaste when he looked at his mother’s lofty, disapproving expression.

The gardens were lovely, at least. He focused on those, and tried not to picture Ursa sketching the flowers. She really had a good hand for it. When asked, she had explained that an eye for detail was critical when dealing with medicinal plants. Her mother had taught her some of her trade. These pictures were mostly for her benefit, anyway. 

Damn. Damn. Why was he thinking about Ursa again?

They drank the tea.

“Iroh’s birthday celebration is approaching,” Ilah said.

“I am aware of this,” said Ozai, who was already planning how to get the Fire Lord to send him on another month-long mission. This was rarely a problem, Azulon was happiest when he could pack his younger son off on some wild goose choice somewhere unhospitable.

“I trust you will be there,” Ilah said.

“If duty permits.”

Ilah sipped her tea.

“Honestly, you could spend more time around Iroh. It would do wonders for your image. You are doing yourself a disservice by insisting on a rivalry you cannot hope to win.”

Ozai tried very hard not to smash his cup when he set it down.

“Iroh is a busy man,” he said coldly. “I do not wish to impose on his precious time.”

“Your hatred of your brother is foolish and juvenile,” Ilah said. “I expected you would grow out of it eventually, but it seems my hope was in vain.”

“I hate to disappoint you, mother,” Ozai said, not even bothering to fake politeness.

“This is news to me,” Ilah said. 

Ah. This frigid, awkward atmosphere was why they avoided talking to one another.

Ursa showed up again, silent and respectful. Ozai found his gaze drawn to the movements of her hands as she cleared the table of the empty cups. Their eyes met briefly, and he saw many different emotions flicker on her face, before she adapted the servile, neutral expression that was required of her.

It was just as well. She was basically a servant now, there to carry his mother’s messages, bring her tea, and entertain her with conversation. There was no reason for Ozai to look at her, and so he resolved not to. 

***

His family was dead set on ruining his day, apparently, as Iroh had cornered him in the library. 

“Brother,” he said, jovial. “I heard you were going to miss my birthday celebration.”

“I am. Father’s orders,” Ozai said coolly. Azulon had signed the orders without a word. Ozai was to oversee the military training of the Domestic Forces on one of the Islands.

“It is a shame,” Iroh said. 

He took a seat opposite Ozai, clearing out the Pai Sho board Ozai had used as an impromptu desk. He had never cared for the game, but it was dumb and meaningless, so of course it was Iroh’s favourite.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were avoiding me,” Iroh said.

“What a ridiculous notion,” Ozai snapped. 

Without further comment, Iroh smiled and began setting the game. Ozai _could_ play, of course. He just chose not to, most of the time. 

“I don’t blame you if you’d rather spend time with your girlfriend,” Iroh said. “Ah, young love! I remember it fondly!”

“You have a chance to remember it fondly every other week, it seems,” Ozai said. “Besides, she’s not my girlfriend anymore.”

The bastard looked genuinely sympathetic. Damn him. Of course, Iroh was an excellent actor, and what was this if not an attempt at dragging information out of Ozai?

“I am sorry to hear that,” Iroh said, moving the tiles on the board. His strategy was infuriating in its meandering, defensive way; ever since his youth, Ozai had thought himself close to cornering him, only to find out he had played right into his trap.

“Are you,” Ozai said.

Iroh sighed. “Believe me, I know the pain of rejection.”

“Why do you assume I was rejected?” Ozai growled. “This is not what happened. _I_ left _her_. She’s a lying, treacherous, untrustworthy granddaughter of a traitor to the Fire Nation. I want nothing to do with her.”

Iroh regarded him, a troubled frown on his face.

“I don’t think you are being fair to the young lady,” he said.

Ozai scoffed, shifting the tiles in silence. At the very least, it drew Iroh’s focus back to the game. 

He had spent too much time lately thinking about Ursa. And whenever he had managed not to do that, somebody reminded him of her. In a last ditch effort, he went out with some nobleman’s daughter, who smiled prettily and was perfectly agreeable in bed. Still, Ozai felt even more hollow and empty after he was spent, frowning down at his lover. She wasn’t Ursa; she was beautiful, but not the right kind of beautiful. Her voice wasn’t the right voice.

It wasn’t her fault, of course. Even he wasn’t so far gone to blame her for that. They parted on amiable terms, even though she hoped for a lucrative marriage proposal, and he hoped to never see her again.

Lost in thoughts, he fell for Iroh’s strategy even quicker than usual. Annoyed with himself, Ozai set the board for a rematch.

This time, it was a draw. Iroh sat back, serious for once.

“Ozai,” he said. “I know you are hurt. But take care that you don’t do anything stupid.”

“This will be difficult, considering failure is all I’m capable of apparently,” Ozai said with a lopsided smile.

“I did not say that,” Iroh said in a tired voice. “No one said that. But Ursa is worried about you—”

Sarcastic grin froze on his face. “You _talked_ to her?”

“That was while you were away,” Iroh said. “She’s new to the Palace. We spoke a few times—”

That—lying, treacherous, _evil_ little bitch—now that would explain why she left him, she had her eyes set on a much higher prize. _I want to return to Hira_ , what a pathetic lie—and he fell for it like a fool—

“Oh, for the love of—” Iroh said, exasperated. “This isn’t like that! Ozai, please. She is young enough to be my daughter.”

“Like that would stop you,” Ozai snarled. 

“Her dating my own brother would stop me!” Iroh said. “Is that how little you think of me?”

“Oh, how could I forget our deep, fraternal bond, or your undying loyalty to me,” Ozai said, fists clenching. 

Iroh rose. He was shorter, stouter of build, but no less intimidating for it. Ozai had no opportunity to face him in proper battle, and although he was confident in his own abilities and certain that day would come, he could not help a familiar sense of dread. It was like staring into his father’s burning golden eyes, with full awareness that the man had both willingness and ability to incinerate him, if he so chose.

“Loyalty goes both ways, brother,” Iroh said in a low, dangerous voice. “I am innocent of what you accuse me of. So is Ursa. Take care, however, when you toss around baseless allegations.”

_You take care_ , Ozai wanted to say. _You think you are untouchable because Father thinks the world of you. Well, he’s not going to live forever._

But he kept the words to himself, forcibly. He would swallow his pride, like he did every day of his life, and _bow_ , and _apologize_. To say them out loud would be suicide. Time wasn’t right; time would never be right at this rate.

Through sheer willpower, he managed to fold his hands together and execute a stiff bow. Iroh was still frowning, but that could not be helped. He would simply have to guard himself more closely from now on.

***

He cleared his schedule for the day and summoned Lee. At Ozai’s orders, he had been shadowing Ursa and intercepting her correspondence. Nothing incriminating had been discovered – she would have been incarcerated or executed by now if that was the case – but now Ozai held the neat pile of unsent letters in his hands, written in Ursa’s careful hand. 

_Dear Ikem_ , one of them began.

Ozai scanned the neat columns of elegant calligraphy, his mind on fire. The meaning behind the words barely registered – everyday nonsense about life in the Palace, a new play Ursa was hoping to see, mentions of people Ozai hadn’t heard of. And the signature:

_Love, Ursa._

He tossed the paper aside before the heat of his fist burned through it. It lay on the floor, crumpled and singed. So much for discretion. If they sent it now, this Ikem would know somebody had read it. Ursa would know somebody had read it.

_Love_ , she had written. Love! What right did she have to write things like that?

Ozai paced the floor in his room, trying to let go of his rage the way the Fire Sages tried to teach him once. It was a matter of breathing – if he focused on inhaling air, felt it fill his lungs, and then leave his body, carrying out all the tangled thoughts and emotions—

He slammed his fist against the table. The wood splintered and charred, as Ozai struggled with his shaky breath. Smoke rose from around his fist.

Ursa wasn’t worth the hassle she had been causing him. Besides, she obviously preferred this—this _Ikem_ , whoever he was—

This time he was a little more successful. Breathing helped. He took the letter, smoothed it carefully, and then placed it with his private papers in a secret compartment behind a wooden wall panel. Then he considered his next move. 

It wasn’t the evidence of treachery he had half-heartedly hoped to find. He didn’t know what it was; she claimed to care for him, and then she wrote letters to other men—how long has it been going for? 

He recalled, clear as day, her wide eyes and tender smile. There was no hint of treachery in the way she looked at him, back when they were together. No cold calculation, no mockery; had that been a lie? How good was she at acting, if that were the case?

Perhaps in his anger he had misread the situation; perhaps it was as Iroh said, and he had no basis for these accusations. Perhaps—

He summoned Lee.

“There’s a man in the province of Hira,” Ozai said. “His name is Ikem. Find out what you can.”

Information was key. After he gathered more, he could confront Ursa. 

***

He knew she usually trained at this hour. Which raised the question of whether or not he was truly trying to avoid her, considering he had come here himself. 

She wasn’t dressed for training, however, when she finally arrived. Unsurprised to see Ozai, she smiled faintly and bowed, as propriety demanded. Wordless, he could only hold her gaze, a frown on his forehead. He didn’t know what to do, or what to say; instead, he took a deep breath, took position, and began.

He used wide, arching hand motions to separate his chi, and then _felt_ the energy shoot between his outstretched fingers, breaching the imbalance. Once it cackled a blinding blue-white light, he pointed it towards the nearest target dummy.

Lightning moved faster than his eyes could follow, almost instantaneously crashing into the straw man-like figure. It exploded on impact, leaving nothing behind but the charred, smoking remains of a wooden pole. He stood there, breathing harshly, haunted by the memory of the sheer _power_ crackling between his fingers. The feeling went beyond exhilaration; beyond everything he had ever felt before.

But that feeling, too, faded. 

He retraced his steps, letting the two separate currents of chi flow together once more. Only then did he allow himself to look at Ursa, who offered him a shy, hesitant smile.

“Should you be doing this now?” she asked. “You look tired… Isn’t it more dangerous that way?”

“It is never not dangerous,” Ozai replied stiffly.

“I see,” Ursa said, with honest admiration in her voice. “But it’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

No, he did not imagine she had. This was an advanced technique, taught to Ozai by Iroh some years ago. Possibly the most valuable thing he had learned from his brother.

There was wariness to her gaze, and rightfully so. Ozai could still see her letter before his eyes, the words burned into his memory. A part of him considered tossing it right into her face, tearing off her mask until only truth remained; but another part had no desire to confront that truth.

He was tired. It came over him, suddenly, as he sat down on a stone bench, and heard Ursa’s soft steps on the sand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.

The guileless expression on her face grated on his nerves, but he could not muster the energy to do anything about it.

“Not particularly,” he said. “Besides, I thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”

Ursa sighed. “I was trying to be friendly. It’s customary to try to cheer your friends up when they are feeling down.”

“And how do you achieve that, ordinarily?” Ozai asked, not even bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Well, it depends on the friend,” she said. “And the problem. But since you won’t talk to me, my options are pretty limited.”

“Do they include sexual favours?”

Ursa narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“Then thank you, I’m not interested.”

He hoped she would leave. Instead she took a seat beside him, to better watch the sun set over the harbour, its last rays gleaming red and gold on the ocean surface.

“What do you do when you are feeling down?” she asked after a while. “Besides firebending practice.”

“More firebending practice,” Ozai said, unsure why he was still talking to her at all. 

“I see,” she said, amused. 

He leaned back and closed his eyes. It wasn’t often he allowed himself to relax in another person’s presence. But despite his anger, he missed the soothing effect her presence used to have on him. Their last few conversations inevitably ended in a fight, and he was, to put it simply, too tired to for that to happen tonight.

“Maybe it would help if you got away from the Palace,” Ursa said. “For a while, at least.”

“I need to meet with the War Minister at dawn,” Ozai said.

“How about the town, then? You could sneak out, wear a disguise…”

Ozai snorted. “Is that what princes do in those plays you like so much?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Ursa said. She stood up; his eyes were closed still, but he heard the rustle of fabric as she moved. “This is what I’m going to do, anyway.”

“You don’t need a disguise,” Ozai pointed out.

“True, but it might be fun to wear one,” Ursa said. “Are you coming?”

His thoughts went to the mountain of papers on his desk, and the meetings scheduled for tomorrow. These were all information he had worked hard to gather, through spies and bribery. All necessary if he were to keep tabs on what was happening in Court and all over the Fire Nation. The walls of the Palace were thick and well-guarded, only the most loyal servants of the Fire Lord permitted within. One had to work really hard to look outside of them.

It would be worth it, he told himself. It would all be worth it, the day he sat on the throne. 

But for now, the evening was fresh and inviting, first stars twinkling in the sky. Ursa smiled at him, a little hesitant, the offer of her friendship still hanging in the air.

“All right,” he said.


	7. The Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ursa and Ozai hit the town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Sexual assault, although it doesn't go too far.
> 
> If you don't remember what happened in previous chapter (and I won't blame you, it's been ages): Ursa invited Ozai to sneak out of the Palace and enjoy a friendly night out.

They met in the gardens near the Inner Wall. Ursa had procured a hooded cloak from somewhere and was now peeking from under it, eyes shining with mischief.

“Are we climbing?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ozai said. “And then it’s straight across several feet of empty, well-lit circular courtyard that we have to cross, upon which we will stick out like a pair of rampaging komodo rhinos.”

“Oh,” Ursa’s mood deflated.

Ozai smirked. “Come here.”

Near a small dragon monument, there was a sequence of stone panels. Pressed in a certain way, they opened a narrow gap behind a stone pillar. Then there were steps leading down, and a solid metal gate.

“That’s more sensible than what I had in mind,” Ursa said.

Ozai took his stance and opened the gate with firebending. A long, narrow corridor would lead them to the city, or even further outside of it.

Ursa lit a flame in her palm and walked beside him, looking around curiously.

“How many people know about this passage?” she asked.

“Only members of the Royal Family are permitted within,” Ozai said.

“Oh.”

“This is not the only way out of the Palace,” Ozai continued. Then he added: “Of course, you are not allowed to share this with anyone.”

“Of course.”

They carried on, the length of the courtyard and outermost guard posts. Beyond that were the city buildings, housing the nobility and military commanders. It was rare that he got to see the place while on foot. It struck him, as they emerged from the secret tunnel into the warm evening air, that the last time had been the night he invited Ursa out for Iroh’s welcome party. And then he had taken a palanquin.

“Come on,” Ursa said, her pace brisk. Away from the Palace, it was as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders; her posture was less perfect for it, but her movements flowed more naturally. Ilah must have drilled good manners into the girl until little else remained. She was good at this sort of thing.

“Where are we going?” Ozai asked.

“You’ll see,” Ursa said.

She clearly knew the city better than he did. He followed, away from the noble houses and into the lesser districts, housing artists, artisans, tradesmen, and scribes.

His heart sank when he saw their destination.

Ursa slowed down.

“We don’t have to stay,” she said quietly, moving closer to him. The crowds have thickened, streets becoming more rowdy. This was a popular place, apparently: a half-circle of sunken stone steps, overlooking a crude stage at the bottom. Vendors sold drink and food, shouting over the noise, while men and women laughed and spoke loudly as they took their seats.

Semi-consciously, he allowed his arm to wrap around Ursa’s narrow waist. He felt the tension grip her body, but would not let go. It would be too easy to lose her in the crowd—

“We can stay,” he said. “So long as the play is decent.”

“It’s traditionally put together by the Academy students,” Ursa said, the warmth of her body causing his concentration to falter a little. He did notice, however, the note of embarrassment colouring her voice. “I actually took part in one last year. But today they are doing an old, historical piece, about the formation of the Fire Nation.”

“Not interested in history?” he asked.

“Not many roles for women,” Ursa said, shrugging. “Besides, I’ve been told it’s unseemly.”

It was. Theatre had a fine tradition in the Nation, but on the rare occasions Ozai frequented one, he sat on plush seats in the elevated Royalty box – and not attempted to find an empty, comfortable spot on solid stone, without fidgeting like some commoner. Certainly he would never consider acting on stage, however. This was a job for lesser born men and women.

The only upside was that Ursa had no choice but to sit close to him, crowded on the other side by a loud peasant. Ozai glared. He then felt, on the other side of him, a clearly drunk idiot who had tripped and nearly fell in his lap.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry!”

Hands balling into fists, Ozai felt the fire in his core. It took an effort of will – no, it took Ursa’s hand on his arm, and her soothing voice.

“We are in disguise, remember?” she asked.

“The blatant _disrespect_ —”

“Yes, I know,” she said. 

Ozai breathed out a cloud of steam, and then stopped a passing vendor. If they were truly going to do this, he needed to be a lot more drunk.

***

The play wasn’t terrible, despite the amateurish acting and the scarceness of props and decoration. He watched in mild amusement as they fumbled their way through long-winded speeches, meant to rally different tribes of the Islanders against one another. They lacked the gravitas to pull off the heavy, unnatural-sounding dialogue, at least for the most part. 

He took another sip of cheap wine, its taste sour and unpleasant, and focused instead on Ursa’s face, her amber eyes shining with excitement. She sat nearly motionless, having internalized Ilah’s disapproving voice, but her face remained open and expressive.

They drank. On the stage, the man who would become the first Fire Lord – Ozai’s distant ancestor – managed to pull off a sufficiently dramatic duel, in which they exchanged long monologues rather than proper blows. By his side, Ursa’s enticing warmth made him long for the comfort of his own bed; and the time he could draw her close and have her for himself.

It was over, finally. Ursa tossed a generous amount of coins into the hat being passed around, but stopped short of waving to some of her Academy friends she had noticed in the distance.

“It would be hard to explain your presence,” she explained.

“I suppose so,” Ozai replied. He looked into his wine cup, disgusted with its contents, and then dumped it in the garbage. “Come on. I could use a decent drink.”

The teashop he chose was one of the finest around. Fountains hummed quietly in the garden, and the inside was filled with the sounds of shamisen music and a more civilized backdrop of conversation. 

It was certainly a new experience to be treated as one of the customers. He supposed that without his distinct hairpiece or armour, he looked no different to other noblemen; the novelty helped ease his irritation somewhat, as they waited to be served.

Wine had already affected him, and it certainly affected Ursa. Her cheeks were rosy and her demeanour slightly more open then usual. She accepted another cup of wine with proper courtly grace and then tossed it back like a sailor.

“There’s no point if you don’t savour it,” Ozai said, before mirroring her movement. The alcohol was stronger than he anticipated, leaving a pleasant burn in his throat.

“Do forgive me, Your Highness,” she said, giggling.

Ozai raised his eyebrow. “You rarely call me that.”

“Oh,” Ursa’s bit her lower lip. “Well, you rarely call me lady.”

He refilled her cup and then his own, careless of the breech of etiquette.

“My lady,” he said.

“My lord.”

They drank, slowly this time. My, she had said; he felt warmth in his stomach, not unlike the wine. Ursa wouldn’t meet his eyes, however, her gaze caught by the performing musicians.

“Hira is nothing like this place,” Ursa said, a faraway look to her eyes.

“Nothing is,” Ozai said. “It’s the Capital City of the Fire Nation. It has no equal.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Ursa said with a soft smile. “But it’s so easy to get caught up in all this… performance. The Palace life, the ceremonies, the art. Back home everything came down to the war,” she bit her lip. “Do you think we will ever have peace?”

“Of course,” Ozai said. 

_I will end the war_ , he wanted to say. _I will bring peace to the Fire Nation._

The world would finally be the way it ought to be. And this was something Azulon had not accomplished, despite his many triumphs and a long, fruitful rule. The old man had no vision, preferring to hold onto Fire Lord Sozin’s outdated battle plans, refusing to invest in new technology. What was good in his youth was still good now.

Ozai had no such setbacks. He was unafraid of change, unafraid of reaching out for more than what had been laid out for him. 

Ursa was studying him with a wistful expression. 

“At least you get to play a part,” she said, dropping her gaze to toy with the candle flame.

“A very minor one,” Ozai said.

“But a part nonetheless.” Her fingers curled and the flames followed. “You must think me shallow,” she said. “Frivolous. All I care about is theatre, and art, and dancing—”

“You have been listening to my mother, haven’t you,” Ozai snorted.

That made Ursa pause, delicate brows pinching in discomfort.

“Lady Ilah is very strict,” she said.

“A frigid bitch, is what you meant to say.”

Wine had certainly loosened his tongue. Ozai frowned, and then drank some more. 

Ursa looked momentarily scandalized, but then her shoulders trembled with suppressed laughter.

“She told me the other day that my parents ought to have me married off already,” she said. “That it wasn’t proper for a noblewoman to not be betrothed at my age. But she has yet to make up her mind if that is due to my parents’ incompetence or my own inadequacy.”

“Thankfully I don’t plague her with such dilemmas,” Ozai said. 

When it came to him, his parents’ minds were set. He wondered, with masochistic curiosity, if Ilah had been talking to Ursa about him. It would explain why Ursa had decided to end their relationship altogether.

“My parents wanted me to get proper education,” Ursa said. “Which is why they sent me here. Besides, it’s much safer than the Colonies. However—” she fell into stubborn silence.

“What?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. Then sighed. “I really do wish they could visit me here. Or some of my friends from Hira.”

Did she mean Ikem? The thought alone made Ozai’s blood boil. 

He forced himself to remain calm. “Why can’t they?”

“My parents aren’t allowed to come to the Capital,” Ursa said, a hint of steel in her gentle voice. “An old edict by Fire Lord Sozin that Fire Lord Azulon hadn’t bothered repelling. And Colony-born people who can’t claim noble ancestry are rarely permitted on the Islands at all.”

“We are at war,” Ozai said. “Guarding our own borders is crucial for maintaining security.” 

“Guarding from whom?” Ursa asked. “I thought they, too, are of the Fire Nation.”

“Their loyalties might have been compromised,” Ozai said.

Anger flashed in her eyes, although her demeanour remained mild and pleasant. With some degree of bitterness, he had to admit that she guarded her emotions better than he did when she put her mind to it. She had the making of a fine politician.

“Is that what you think of us?” she asked. “It’s the Colonies that supply the army with soldiers and resources. Or am I wrong?"

“This is classified information,” Ozai said. 

She understood that much at least and did not press the subject. 

Being one of the oldest colonies, Hira enjoyed relative stability. Ursa would not know about the peasant revolts or the Earth Kingdom insurgents that plagued some of the newer settlements. Flow of information, after all, had to be carefully controlled. 

Ursa reached out for the candle again. Its flame curled around her pale wrist, twisting between her fingers. It was fine work, the smallest gesture bending the fire into fantastical forms, before it resumed its natural course: up, always up, towards the heaven and the stars. In the warm, flickering light, Ursa was more beautiful than ever.

Something about his gaze must have betrayed him. As she blushed, Ozai felt a surge of resentment. It felt only natural to reach out and catch her palm in his own. To stroke the smooth, pale skin and feel the fire dance around their intertwined hands. He did not understand why she shied away from him, eyes fanning shut.

“Ozai—”

He let go. The wine must have affected him – he shouldn’t have been drinking at all. And yet there he was, reaching for the cup again to cover the awkward movement of his hand. 

Ursa was still pretending to be captivated by the musicians. Ozai followed her gaze.

Once he looked over the wooden partition separating them from the other tables, he had to bite back an inelegant curse.

“What is it?” Ursa asked.

His curiosity had not gone unnoticed. Damn—

“Brother! What are you doing here?” Iroh’s loud, amiable voice echoed around the teashop. Ozai set down the cup with too much force, sloshing the wine over the rim and right onto his hand. On the table, the candles flickered as he drew in a sharp breath.

“General,” Ursa bowed in greeting, handling herself with a lot more grace then Ozai was capable of.

Iroh came in the company of Jeong Jeong and Piandao. Luckily, there was no room for all three of them at the table.

“Prince Ozai was kind enough to escort me to the theatre,” Ursa said in response to Iroh’s earlier question, when it became obvious Ozai himself would not answer.

“You are certainly more persuasive than I am, Lady Ursa,” Iroh said. “I could never get my brother to join us in appreciation of the fine arts.”

“I would not call them fine,” Ozai said coldly, and then stood up, straightening his back. “Now if you will excuse me, I must escort the lady back to the Palace.”

He did not care how rude he was being. To Ursa, to Iroh, to the half-full bottle of expensive wine still on the table. Ursa’s delicate brows were furrowed, but he did not care about that, either. He offered her his arm and waited until she gave in and accepted it.

None too gently, he steered her out of the teashop and onto the streets. It was easy enough to find his way, the Palace looming above the City. But the thought of coming back there was unbearable. Where else could he go, however? Where in this damn place could he escape from the sight of his father’s portraits, or Iroh’s stifling presence?

“Slow down, please,” Ursa said.

Her quiet voice made him all that more aware of his own anger. He did slow down, however, to match her shorter step.

All over again, he longed for solitude. Away from the art district, the streets weren’t so crowded. Still there was the occasional passer-by: servants running errands, messengers, guards, noblemen. They had to move to make space for a passing palanquin; they had the _audacity_ to demand for Ozai to move—

Eventually, they arrived at the lake shore. Trees were lusher here, the area almost completely deserted. Cold breeze blew over the water’s surface. He breathed in the night air, letting it cool his nerves.

Ursa stood silent, captivated by the sight. She had mentioned once or twice that she loved being by the water. He could, perhaps, see why.

“Why do you hate your brother?” she asked.

“I don’t hate him,” he said. 

“Yet you never want to be around him.”

Ozai felt his jaw tense. “He is the standard I have been held to my entire life, and found consistently lacking. Why would I want to be around him?”

Ursa smiled a sad half-smile. “I don’t have siblings, so I cannot know what it must feel like. But, Ozai—you are handsome, intelligent, charming when you want to be, and a master firebender. And a prince—” she trailed off.

“No, keep going,” Ozai said, glad that the darkness concealed his face.

Her laughter was soft, quiet, ringing with embarrassment.

“What? It’s true.” Serious again, Ursa turned back towards the lake. “I just cannot see why you can’t be satisfied with what you have.”

Ozai scoffed. “Where would we be, as a Nation, if we grew complacent with mediocrity?”

“Not at war, for one thing.”

“The war will be over eventually,” Ozai said. “And the technological advancement it brought us is invaluable.”

“Maybe so,” Ursa sighed. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

A breeze disturbed the lake’s surface. Ozai watched the ripples spread, and the wind brushing Ursa’s hair from her face.

“Be careful with your words,” Ozai said. “You are already in a difficult position. If you are overheard questioning the war efforts—”

“I’m not a fool,” Ursa said. 

“I never said you were.”

She shivered. It really was colder here than anywhere else in the city and the bare skin of her arms was covered with goose bumps. Her cloak was nowhere to be found; she must have left it at the teashop.

Unable to help himself, Ozai stepped closer and brushed her shoulder. He had enough fire inside him that she had to have felt it.

At his touch, Ursa went very still. This stillness was new, jarring, unnatural. Her skin remained as smooth and flawless as he remembered, and felt just as good beneath his fingers. But her gaze was wary, regretful.

“Ozai—”

He did not like the way she said his name now. It used to be such a lovely sound, a hoarse whisper slipping from between her perfect lips. Now it carried all the tones of a warning.

With his mouth just inches from her hair, he could almost taste the floral scent of her perfume.

“Am I to be content with your friendship, then?” he asked.

“I—talked about this. With some of my friends. They suggested I did not handle it well,” Ursa said, picking her words with care.

Ozai laughed, caressing her smooth cheek. Ursa would not meet his eyes.

“Is that so?” he asked. “And who told you that? Was it Ikem?”

She startled, eyes wide with confusion.

“Ikem? What does he have to do with anything?”

A grim satisfaction burned through his gut. She tried to take a step back, but it was no effort at all to steer her in the direction of a nearby tree. She would not leave until he got an explanation out of her.

“So it is him,” he said, voice low. “Who is he, then? Your lover?”

Was he more powerful, better looking, more important—what _was_ he? In what ways was he better, that she would come running back for him?

“He’s a friend of mine,” Ursa said, with another step backwards that Ozai followed. Her gaze never wavered, but her voice trembled slightly. “We dated for a while, when we were both fifteen, but that was before I even met you—”

“Oh, your _friend_ ,” Ozai growled. Her back hit the tree; with his palms braced against the rough bark, he had her trapped. “Just like I am your _friend_ now?” He could not help a sneer. “Have many _friends_ , do you, Lady Ursa?”

She looked at him with sudden fury.

“This is beneath you,” she said.

“Oh, I am honoured to count myself among them,” Ozai said. Her pulse raced beneath his fingers as he caressed her neck. “Did he call you back, then? Wrote you a lovely long letter—”

“Have you been spying on me?” Ursa demanded, outraged. “Reading my letters? How _dare_ you?”

“You deceived me,” he said. “Led me on, while all the time you had another man—”

“Ikem and I broke up ages ago,” Ursa said. “There is nobody else—”

“Then why did you leave me?”

Whatever distance she tried to put between them wasn’t enough. His own words rang in Ozai’s ears, pathetic and weak and desperate; and there was Ursa, with her wide eyes, trembling with fear.

She opened and closed her mouth several times before she could form the words.

“You scare me,” she took a deep breath. “I like you, but you scare me. And you—treat people with such contempt sometimes—and you can never be satisfied with anything—you’re just—”

“I’m what?” he demanded.

He could tell she regretted her honesty, courtly mask slipping off as every emotion became plain on her face. And this irrational fear of hers, clouding them all. He hadn’t raised his voice or hand against her, until now. Why would she—

“When have I ever hurt you?”

“You haven’t,” Ursa said, almost too quiet to hear. Then added: “Yet.”

The implication that it was inevitable made him startle. That this was what had to have happened. For all the considerable affection he had for Ursa, it would not matter in the end. Failure was the only possible outcome.

Wasn’t it, though? Hadn’t it been what his mother and father had told him from the beginning, that he was destined to fail? That something in his nature was broken and always would be, poisoning every endeavour, destroying whatever love existed there between himself and his own family—

“I’m sorry,” Ursa said.

This wasn’t an apology she was making, but a plea to be allowed to leave. In response, Ozai tightened his grip on her narrow wrist, tree bark biting painfully into his own skin.

“So am I,” he said, leaning down.

When he kissed her, when he pressed his lips to hers – it was nothing, a mockery of what used to be there. Ozai growled, low in his throat, and kissed her harder, careless that she was limp and unresponsive. It had never been like this between them. Ursa’s hunger always matched his own.

He let go of her wrists, hands sliding down to clutch the curve of her hips. She struggled, skin heating up as she attempted to shove him away. But Ozai was past caring. She used to be _his_ —

“Let me go,” she said, trembling.

His mouth found hers again, edge of her teeth grazing his lower lip. He cupped her face and forced her to look at him.

“Who are you to deny me?” he snarled.

He had never seen her angry. It lit up her eyes with a brilliance that stole his breath away. That was the look of a true firebender; powerful, unstoppable. He couldn’t bring himself to mind the stench of burnt clothing, or the treasonous blow she aimed at him the second her hands were free.

Alas. For all her rage, for the blood of masters running through her veins, Ursa herself wasn’t a master. He deflected her attacks easily. A damn shame she didn’t put more effort into training; her gritted teeth and narrowed eyes told him she regretted that as well. Still, she had enough fire in her to put distance between them, and he was unwilling to strike her even now.

She was breathing heavily, posture defensive, as she circled around to have a clear route of escape. If they fought in earnest, it wouldn’t be a fight at all. Ursa must have accepted it, because she stood up ramrod straight, folding her arms and scowling at him.

“I have nothing more to say to you, Prince Ozai,” she said.

“This is not your decision to make, Lady Ursa,” Ozai reminded her, cold.

She fixed him with a hard stare and pressed her mouth pointedly shut.

He could make her talk. He had every right to. She would learn to respect him – she would learn to fear him, if need be.

But this would be a sour victory. The memories of having her in his arms, eager and willing, were perfectly clear. And when had he allowed himself to go down that path? When had this woman gotten beneath his skin, her voice and the touch of her hands a sweet, precious sensation, unlike anything he had felt before?

He was stronger than this. He had to be.

Ursa, still eyeing him warily, adjusted the collar of her robe and secured it more tightly around her narrow waist. The fabric was rumpled and singed in places, but she still managed to look dignified wearing it. 

Crickets chirped in the grass, ever louder. The breeze rustled in the trees; water lapped gently at the shoreline. The ambient sounds only amplified the heavy, oppressive silence between them.

“Come,” Ozai said, fists clenching and unclenching. “I will take you back.”

He spun around on his heel and began walking, fully aware that she would need a light jog to catch up to him. Now that his anger faded, he felt a hot wave of shame welling inside of him. Perhaps it would be better to leave Ursa here; let her find her own way back inside the Palace, do her explaining before the guards and Lady Ilah. He owed her nothing, after all.

Beneath that petty anger was another thought, however. A growing, burning realization that this was one weakness he could not afford to let go of. 

Ursa was meant to be his. All he needed to do was make her see that.


End file.
